he sat in the row of desks next to her and reminded her of a southern gentleman from the civil war,
a handsomely torn expression on his face with an impressive amount of facial hair
and those deep, poetic eyes like small worlds shadowed by a concerned brow
those eyes would sweep across her in moments when she pretended she could not feel them taking her in
she became more aware of how she held her pen, the part in her long brown hair, how her sleeves should be rolled up, all of the trivial matters of attraction.of course during these curious beginnings to a visual flirtation these things do matter. an hour and 15 minutes twice a week was her time to show him and not tell him how lovely she might be. they were in this class to learn about writing and the teacher always told them to do that anyway; show, don't tell! show him.

so she would try and show him that she was not shy to share her opinion, that her arms could be raised and from the calling on of fingertips she could produce an answer that was thoughtful. she could speak with eloquence and add a witty remark. she could wear stylish dresses and necklaces that her grandmother wore once. she could imagine her makeup smeared by an antebellum beard. and verses would circle his eyes and tell you all the lines you could not hear. because he never talked to her, you see. they only passively spoke to each other in class. they watched each other when they pretended not to notice. they softly agreed with each other when speaking in discussions. they created an indirect appreciation of one another. her eyes travelled all across his back and his face in profile would turn ever so slightly to return those intrigued looks.

but it was nearing towards the end of this class, and they still had never said "Hi."
she left class one afternoon with the intention of skipping her next class and noticed that he was walking in front of her. she did not seize this as an opportunity to talk about stupid things that were an excuse to start something between them. but she did not let him walk much farther than she.

she noticed that he was going the same route as her apartment and continued to slowly follow his feet. he glanced back over his shoulder like he had so many times before to her and they smiled at one another. "Hello" they said, without opening their mouths. they kept walking in this formation, with him every so often checking to see if she was still smiling to herself behind him. he did this about four or so times until she had reached her apartment. she opened the gate to the concrete stairway ahead of her and when he looked back to see she was not behind him, she slammed the gate extra hard so he would turn to see her standing on the stairs smiling at him above on the 3rd floor of her apartment complex. they paused for a moment and she waved from her stairs. still never speaking, just shaking her hand left to right and right to left to show him she acknowledged those side glances, that she acknowledged him. and he quickly waved back and then shyly folded his arms back in place and began to walk away. they still had not spoken to each other, but this small moment spoke to her. and she laughed to herself and reviewed what had happened in her mind, imagining how she would explain it to someone else and wondering if they would be able to see it in their minds with so few words.

i see the hurt stretch across your face
i see the hours hang on your eyelids
i see what you dont feel like talking about
and i know, nobody can get inside your head
but everyone tries to tell you whats in there

you can start so easily
but finishing? i dont know
youll just start something else
maybe you can compile all your started things
and say its a collection
you can take up parasailing
and not know how to swim really well, i guess

i was so nervous to meet his mother
i had heard descriptions that were
intimidating to say the least.
i had heard of all the things she didnt like:
chipped nail polish,
fingerprints on the steel refrigerator handles.
so naturally i checked myself for chips or smudges.
i put my sweaty palms down carefully on my thighs
and sat very ladylike.
i wore a nice blouse
i powdered away the shine and sweat
from my after school face.
i shaved my legs,
i shaved my
keep it private, i'm dating her son.
i picked out the right earrings.
i toned down my sleaziness,
stuffed the swear words back in my mouth.
then she presented me with a test:
a box of donuts; glazed, chocolate, bearclaws.
and how am i supposed to be?
am i supposed to be demure to donuts,
as if i have never met donuts
and i could not formally accept the invitation?
i think of so many girls who would politely shake their head no in this situation.
and i thought briefly of this,
this sugar limbo.
"oh no thank you, im fine"
oh what a lady, she turned down that donut with such grace.
but despite this whole presentation of myself i have for her,
my initial reaction is "oh yeah!"
hear i come, you delicious bearclaw!
and later my boyfriend tells me, after all my fears
that she liked me because i ate the donut

9/24

If I could tell you what the years mean to me.
If I could express the kind of love that ages with you,
that sees you when youre awkward,
when there was still a gap between your front teeth,
when your heart was first spat out,
when your father was harsh about art and what it means,
when people questioned your fashion, your sense,
your wisdom, your words, your scenes.
If I could show you you are so beautiful when youre vulnerable,
when you let it all spill out,
when the words youve locked away roll off those big eyelashes of yours.
If I could let you know that
that maze of a mind of yours still so amazes me,
you would probably say I have cheesy puns,
but I wont stop making them for you.
You say I embarrass you sometimes
and im so sorry for my oblivious mouth,
but I wont stop learning from you.
If I could tell you it is such a relief to see you recover
to see the light return to your eyes,
to hear your laugh climb back up your ribs
and bounce around in my ears, loud and alive.
It reminds me of all the years
of wanting to hear that sound.
Because I have known you a long time I know this means
that sometimes the world will wound you
and the laughter may be lost in your chest,
that sometimes we forget to say how much all these things mean,
but the bond we have, no matter how distant we may be in mind or miles,
makes me who I am and is a part of me,
it has helped me to be myself,
and even if I could tell you all this
you still wouldn't really know how much that means to me

i am the mother of this heart
and i let it play
out in the sun
in the rain, in the mud
free to be dirty and to enjoy
i am not some overprotective parent
that sees the sky turning gray
and locks the doors.
it might be hard for me to stay put sometimes,
so maybe i enjoy all this running around, really.
im young
im naive
and strong for now,
but i do give in.
i give in to love everytime. i give it all.
i give it my soul. my speech. my anger.
my childhood. my mistakes. my looks. my light.
it takes so much strength
to share with someone else
to say okay, thats alright
i want
i think
i can
this is
i am
we do
we will
this is not it,
we are not through.

when i hear people say "i'm not good at writing" I usually say something like: "Maybe you are and you just don't know it. If you write a little something everyday about whatever, something that happened to you, a memory, somebody rude you encountered, something that made you smile, or just what youre thinking...it might be more interesting than you think. Just remember that whoever reads it or is listening is not inside your head so you have to describe it as best as you can with that in mind. The problem with writing is that most people try to force it into something before it ever is anything. You should let your thoughts flow, let the words build and grow, let the characters form a soul, let it all spill out first. It doesnt have to be poetry, it might just become it."

I'm not even following my own advice. I wanted to write more because Stacy told me she started to read my blog and it made me feel good. I forgot that kind of connection. I miss school mostly because I was forced to write and even when I had a massive foot noted beast to write, I wrote poems and other things about my life as a means of procrastination. Why do I lack so much discipline? I don't like being told what I should do. Even if I'm telling it to myself. My writing teacher last year told me I should never start a sentence like that last one I wrote. Well I like it. It's dramatic. D for disobedience for that.

It doesn't all have to be fucking poetry! I like a seasoned swear word here and there. It's like adding some pepper but if you use too much, it's not good. I would get so excited when my Shakespeare teacher would swear because I knew she really meant it. If every other word you use in your vocabulary is a swear word I'm not really sure what you mean...

I'm going to try to write something every day...even if I don't publish it..it's for me...and it doesnt have to be spectacular...it doesnt have to be FUCKing poetry

but I love you. (You)

so I won't stop writing if you please won't stop reading

we didn't

we didnt stop talking,
but you stopped asking.
amazing how far questions can go.
we didnt stop seeing each other,
but you stopped looking.
amazing how far the world can pull you away.
we didnt start a fight,
but we didnt resolve anything either.
we didnt scream and yell,
but we didnt speak up,
and love cant be closed shut.

if you ask me i prefer a tired throat.
i prefer swollen eyes.
i prefer off my chest and a mess,
and the extremes over neutrality.
if you ask me,
if only you would ask me,
but you do not.

patterns

people tell me we have a pattern
well patterns can amount to something beautiful cant they
patterns are designs and intricate lines
the colors and twists of our creation
patterns are people
people tell me we are repetitive
but songs recycle sentiments
the stars show their faces on schedule
and our hearts skip the same pace
so yes you may call it a pattern
but i call it an endless work of art

the white pelican

we were watching a program about birds,
and there was the white pelican.
the narrator tells us that
the worlds a different place now,
so this birds gotta change.
beaks against nets and boats
oil, plastics,
all kinds of drastic
to keep up.
survivors swallow adaptation.
hunger suggests you change.
so the pelicans, they found that they could
feed on the chicks of other birds.
they changed their flight pattern
and their diet.
acceptance with no feathered riot.
they hover over the ground,
abandon the sea.
they change i guess you could say instinctively.
i hover over my own thoughts, which are wings to me,
and i ask
what will be on my plate in later years?

My family has never been too tidy. when people apologize for a disorderly house i laugh and say they haven't seen mine. my father can't smell and he thinks that no one else can either. deodorant is just like this pointless task to him. he cant smell it, he doesnt know how bad he smells, so how couldnt he forget to put it on sometimes? only when he raises his arms and our faces become sour do we poke him until he says "alright, alright." He gets angry about my room when there are heaps of who knows what on the floor. but after he's had his coffee he just leaves the kitchen right away because that coffee pot leaks shit EVERYWHERE. don't pretend it doesnt dad, you drink out of it everyday. when my brother lived with us, he liked to take showers in a tropical rainforest setting. do not go into the bathroom with socks, unless you love that wet sock feeling. my mom tells me how she used to be as bad as me about cleaning up. but now she is an organized messy. she has always taken care of the bills and has always had a big heart, with plenty of space for animals. in turn, this allows fur, everywhere, all over. lint rollers are never out of business, vacuum cleaners are constantly choking. all furry things are allowed on the bed, the couch, our clothes. when it rains, footprints, pawprints, muddy comforters, delighted drool. friends of mine have clean couches, pristine counter tops, boring amounts of dust. some have pets that stay outside, they keep the mud in the mud. ive heard of rooms people have that have couches no one is allowed to sit on. that is just ridiculous. sometimes i feel that i should be more embarrassed but, my family is dirty and loving. our cars never smell like new. our clothes are not stiff and pressed. we accept the mud. we sleep with panting beasts. comfort is not always clean. even if you smell bad (we might tell you so) but we will still hold out our open arms.

women say "I want a man who will move mountains for me"
men who dont run from mountains
or try to build around them
men who wont pretend "it's all taken care of"
when evidence clearly shows,
no mountains have been moved.
i dont ask for monumental strength
come on ladies, using a hyperbole to explain what you want
i roll my eyes, but romantically.
i want a man to climb those hyperboles with me
if we run out of oxygen
it wasn't meant to be
and if we never look back
at crumbling where our feet have been
if we move swiftly
carefully yet fiercly
mountains will obey our steps
mountains will allow us,
they will keep me slipping and smiling.
mountains wont be moved by the man i want
because i enjoy the climb,
i dont like it easy
so you better come with me